


something between us

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: That group trip they all took to portugal, but also danny, my small tea-drinking, sweater-sporting son, was there. eric and dele resolutely Not Talking about things while harry tries to Not Notice the Not Talking and danny enjoys his life, remains soft. bantz bantz bantz.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



> Prompt I found in the lastminutesub that wasn't filled, I hope you like it!

One of the best parts about travel, Danny thought, was the shared experiences with close friends. 

Like Harry going around with a perennial cast of puzzlement on his face, eyes squinting against the late setting sun, his palm pressed against his forehead like a visor looking out the sea and beyond from the balcony, skin already reddening from the futile smearing of SPF on his sun shy skin throughout the day. 

The next best part about travel -

“The food,” Danny declared, as he bit into a savoury fried ball, eyes fluttering closed at the flavours that danced across his tongue. The savoury, slightly briney cod fish swathed with delicate spices suspended in deep fried potato balls. 

“Hey, Eric, what’s this again?”

“ _Bolinhos de Bacalhou_ ,” Eric responded, the Portuguese tripping easily from his lips. 

“It reminds me of me nan’s codfish fritters,” Danny explained in between gulps, “but we use flour instead of potato, and I remember me nan used to throw bits of tomato and thyme in there.”

“You don’t say,” Eric said.

***

“You don’t say,” Eric said, and Harry looked up from his book. Eric sounded like Eric, but not really. In deference to the weather and everyone seated alongside the pool, Eric dressed for the weather, with a twist. In deference to the Portuguese, unlike his fellow Englishmen, Eric tried for smart - as much as one could be ‘smart’ in thirty four degrees C at six pm.

Linen trousers instead of comfortable shorts, and a t-shirt that looked a bit more polished than the t-shirt and shorts the rest of them were clad in. 

“It’s amazing,” Danny continued, “The food is great here. Not too hot, but enough spice to...”

Harry switched off, his gaze drifting towards the sliding doors that opened on to the patio and the tables that they were now seated around. Dele walking through the cluster of people with a tray of glasses in hand; dark glasses clipped to the neckline of his shirt, which might have been fished out of a moth ridden clothes basket somewhere, but it seemed too clean and the material too stiff to be vintage. Dele now stopped to talk to one of his fans - Tottenham had fans everywhere it seemed like- and nodded at the request. 

Oh okay, a selfie. Dele did his trademark smirk for the camera, exchanged words with the now excited red-faced fan. Another smile, a nod of his head, before he resumed his walking towards them. 

Harry closed his book, laced his fingers together across his lap, giving up on reading whatever. 

He briefly wished that Mace had been here. Ryan Mason, a fellow Spurs scholar who came through the academy alongside him. Who kept the faith through their various loans until they made it to the first team. Mace had been a part of Tottenham when they broke new ground in many ways under Pochettino, a link between the academy and first team like Harry himself. 

Mace had turned down the idea of a trip with them all. 

_”My future,” he’d said to Harry, “isn’t here. The gaffer’s made his choice and I’m not it.”_

_Harry stood there, leaning against the locker, because there was nothing to say. Nothing to say but, “I’m going to miss you, you knob.”_

_Mace rolled his eyes, his lips tugged into a half hearted attempt at a smile. “I’m leaving the team, mate, not going off to war.”_

_”I know,” Harry pushed himself off against the locker, and scooped up his bag from the low bench in front of it. “But-”_

_”Give over,” Mace rolled his shoulders, “You still have Kyle and Danny. Not to mention Dele and Eric.”_

_It’s not the same, Harry wanted to say, and felt a pang of guilt at just even thinking it. But Mace, being a solid sort, wasn’t one given to self pity. “Win something, yeah? We’ve built a great team here. Now you need to win things.”_

_Harry reached out to high five Mace, found himself in a one armed hug. The winters with its accompanying SAD weren’t the worst months of the year. The summers were, because players like Mace left. “We’ll try. I’ll still miss you though.”_

_”You big girl’s blouse,” Mace said, half laughing. “There’s still WhatsApp.”_

Dele now at the table, dispensing their drinks like a seasoned waiter. “Danny, your guava surprise, Harry, plain orange juice, and Eric-” Dele placed the glass carefully in front of Eric, “here. ”

“Thanks,” Eric touched the glass with his fingers, his eyes seemingly studying the delicate metal filigree that made the surface of the table.

***

“Soooo, we drive on the right side of the road?”

“Welcome to the continent, Danny.”

“It’s weird. Isn’t it weird? Can’t get my head around it.”

“Okay, James Bond,” Eric retorted, shooting a look over his shoulder before he turned towards the steering wheel, and did the basic checks. Seat belt, adjusting rearview and side mirrors. 

“You’re a right laugh, you are,” Danny said, as he opened his guidebook, and settled comfortably in the seat behind Dele. Since Eric knew this part of the world quite well, it made sense for Eric to drive. Especially on the wro - right side of the road. The engine now fired to life, windows up and the air con inside the car making it supermarket frigid. 

Dele rode shotgun, the signs towards the Portuguese/Spanish border nothing but blue signs with white lettering. The radio pumping out music more suited to the Algarve on a Friday night _festa_ than a sleepy Sunday morning along the Faro coast; fast frenetic tunes and mixes of popular English language songs, _One Dance_ being a popular choice. 

The DJ spun a purple patch of songs; hit after hit. Dele wasn’t the self conscious sort, and even if he were, the DJ knew his job. Songs designed to make you tap your feet to the beat, or drawing from dance hall, hip hop, a bit of funk. 

Dele really got into it, started singing the lyrics that he knew, until the DJ pulled a fast one; by threading in songs in Portuguese through the mix, the language creeping in, until Dele found himself unable to sing along, and Eric picking up the songs in Portuguese. 

When Eric started singing in Portuguese, Dele just stopped and listened. Eric speaking in a language that he didn’t understand; a world of experiences he really couldn’t bridge. 

Eric driving, his eyes hidden behind shades, because even in the blush of the morning, with the breeze coming off the sea still fresh, and the world still scrubbed and new, the day’s glare seemed to be at its full power, even now. 

The sun’s heat and light mighty enough to dissolve the clouds, the sky now the flat bright blue of storybook pictures, the sea a deep ultramarine and forever restless. 

On Dele’s side of the car, he looked out at the rocks and the scrub giving way to cream coloured strips of sand; the bushes more brown than green, and in the distance, people in brightly coloured costumes sunbathing. 

“All right, Dell boy?”

Dele slid his glasses from his pocket, and slipped them on, before looking in Eric’s direction. Through the tint of his Oakley's, Eric and the world now tinted in amber, the sunlight dancing across the thatched hair along his forearms turning it into gilt and gold. 

“Yeah,” Dele answered, voice soft, as he shifted in his seat turning towards the changing view outside his passenger window. “Safe.”

***

“Did you know,” Danny begin, looking up from his _Lonely Planet Guide_ , “that Seville used to export its oranges to Britain to be used in marmalade?”

“And marmalade is the German for jam, I think,” Harry supplied, not wanting to dampen Danny’s mood. 

Then again, Danny’s mood had been buoyant from their arrival at the airport. He embraced the tourist experience readily. Today, clad in a cap with a visor and camera at the ready, he snapped pictures with care and consideration, not the careless convenience and wave of camera phone for Danny, no. He had a Canon, complete with strap around neck, its case hanging off his shoulder.

“It’s amazing, eh?” Danny asked, and yes, it was. 

Grooves of orange trees lined the sidewalks, the air sharp with the cheerful scent of oranges, bouncing around the more fecund smell of horse dung. They stood on cobbled streets older than the churches that loomed around them, the gentle whinnying of horses in the shade. 

In addition to the dim bustle of the city around them (Harry remembered Eric saying that in Southern Europe, people fled their towns for cooler climes), there was the specific _ring_ of iron horseshoe against cobblestone as carriages with tourists cantered past. 

In the distance, its towers scraping the sky, stood the grand edifice of the Catedral de Sevilla. 

“London doesn’t feel this big,” Harry admitted, as they continued to walk around the city, the sun’s warmth just this side of bearable. Wincing, Harry reached into his pocket for his tube of sunblock and offered some to Danny. “I mean, there’s St Paul’s Cathedral, but-”

“I get you,” Danny agreed, as they moved towards the church, the span of its walls as vast and steep as a mountain range. “This is massive.”

“It’s pretty old,” Eric started as he rocked back on his heels, his hands tucked into the pocket of his shorts. “It’s supposed to be the third largest church in the world. So if you want to get married, H. -”

“Ha, we’re good, thanks. Dele?”

Dele only shook his head as he tugged at the visor of his cap, his features thrown in shadow. “That's more for Kanye West, mate.”

“Christopher Columbus’ tomb is here,” Danny looked up from his guide book. “Just, wow. He’s the guy who discovered Jamaica for starters. _In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue_.”

“I don’t know how you remember that,” Dele shook his head. 

“You skived during the history classes, eh?” Danny teased, “supposedly the New World was split between Portugal and Spain, and agreed by the Pope at the time. A Papal Decree, I think. But then Britain, the Netherlands and France decided to stick their oars in and it was on like ... _Grand Theft Auto_.”

“If you’d taught my history classes,” Dele arrowed a smile in Danny’s direction, “I might have showed up.”

“We really should get out of the sun,” Eric tapped at his watch. “At this time of day, it’s only fit for mad dogs and Englishmen.”

“We should be fine, then?” Danny laughed, the notes in his voice sounding really Northern. 

“Until you faint from heat stroke.” Eric retorted.

***

Somehow, given the fact that it was mid August, and Seville mostly deserted, Eric found a restaurant in a relatively nondescript part of the city, its doorway framed by orange trees.

 _Score_ Eric gave a small fist pump, feeling triumphant as if he’d scored a goal in the dying moments of a game. 

The feeling continued when he realised the waiter didn’t speak English, but his Portuguese went a long way when it came to orders. 

In the background, soft Spanish contemporary ballads played across the TV in videos. Someone even did a contemporary take on _Quizas, Quizas, Quizas_ , as if it were 1950s again.

“Ibiza?” Harry questioned, as he speared an olive with a toothpick. 

“It’s a great holiday,” Dele grinned, playing with a hunk of bread in his fingers, but making no move to eat it. “People tend to leave you alone, unless,” his grin sharpened, “you don’t want them to.”

Eric was thick skinned enough not to assume that every sly dig was aimed at him. Playing professional football and being in the crosshairs of every pundit who thought they were the Oracle of Football Knowledge did that to you. 

But he and Dele hadn’t spoken much on this holiday. 

And that was a lie, Eric immediately corrected himself. Well, _sort of_

_”Leicester,” Dele gritted out, seated at the edge of the pool. It had been the evening he’d flown over with Harry and Danny. Eric felt half pleased and shy as he’d driven them from Faro airport and pointing out the sights of the country of his heart along the way, as they moved from hinterland to varied greens and neat houses._

_Later in the evening, Dele stripped down to swimming trunks, seated at the edge of the pool at their rented villa, his first full season in the premier league and international player behind him._

_”It was meant to be.” Eric shrugged, before reaching for his beer. A rare off season treat to be enjoyed sparingly, because Pochettino had callipers and scales and a heavy dose of judgement._

_”Fuck’s sake,” Dele snarled with a shake of his head. “And we won’t even talk about England. You must wish that you got cap tied to Portugal, eh?”_

_Eric made a face and shrugged his shoulders, he’d made his choice, and he stood by it. “Swings and roundabouts. Portugal was a long shot. No one expected them to win. It was like... a year of the Leicesters, I guess. Football is crazy.”_

_”Fuck’s sake,” Dele started again. “If I’d kept my temper against West Brom-”_

_”Let it go,” Eric waved it off. “Forget about it, or else I’ll- I’ll-”_

_”Sing?”_

_”Frozen,” Eric confirmed._

_”Vicious.” Dele shook his head, before turning to look at Eric. Dele’s hair and lashes still ink dark and wet from the pool, his eyes narrowing in thought. For all everyone thought Dele was a fairly straightforward emotional guy, at times he could be reserved, almost distant._

_Before Eric had the courage to ask what that look meant, Dele pushed himself off the edge and into the pool with a muted splash._

Eric blinked, shaking his head and finding himself in the present, their waiter setting out their tapas. Spanish omelette, _patatas bravas_ , _chorizo_ , lamb albondigas. More balsamic vinegar and olive oil on tap, if they wanted. 

Danny, who must have been doing secret language lessons, bless him, tried his luck with Spanish. A hearty thank you and an order for sparkling water, and he was pleased as punch when the waiter nodded in comprehension. 

“Yes,” Danny nodded, “you see what I did? I Spanished.”

“Oh, Danny.” Harry buried his face in the palm of his hand as he laughed. “I don’t even think that’s a word.”

“I tried my hand at it, anyway. Who knows, by the end of this trip, I might be fluent.”

“We’re leaving Seville at the end of the day, mate. Besides, it takes seven years to learn a language, right Eric?”

“I-” Eric started, but Danny seemed so proud of himself, he couldn’t rubbish the attempt. “The hardest part is to begin, I think. Once you have the bit between your teeth, the time just flies.”

“See!” Danny nudged Harry with his elbow. “I only have two thousand, five hundred and fifty five days to go.”

***

Harry, being Harry, commandeered the driving duties on the way back from Seville to the Algarve. Danny, intrepid explorer- and decipher of Tom Toms- riding shotgun.

Eric made a minimum show of protest, but honestly, he didn’t mind Harry driving the return leg to the Algarve. With the sun being lower in the sky, but the evening ahead still long, it was one of those annoying drives back with the sun’s unrelenting glare in your eyes, with the home traffic to contend with. 

“Are you sure?” Eric dragged out the last word, not that he necessarily wanted to drive back, but. 

“If you can do it,” Harry said with the unerring self belief that made him into the player he’d become. “How hard can it be?”

Besides, Eric had to admit, the passenger seat in the back of their rental was pretty comfortable. Rolling his head against the edge of the seat, he turned to Dele, not surprised to see him looking out the window, a bag of pistachio seeds across his lap, his phone in his hand. 

How did they get here? At the place where all they did was exchange covert glances, and dancing around whatever this was. 

_Football is crazy_ , Eric turned over the thought in his mind, like a collector would with a much loved coin; holding on to the thought like a child with a much loved cuddle toy.

He could understand and appreciate Harry, as open and straight forward as a children’s story book. Or Danny, who had the unabashed interest in everything around him, and used it for self improvement. 

Dele wasn’t supposed to be - and Eric’s mind skittered away from that thought, as he focused on what Dele should have been.

***

_Enfield, London: Tottenham Hotspur photoshoot, Premier League season 2015/16_

Once a year, every year, clubs all over Europe did their annual team photo shoot. Tottenham Hotspur were no different, for the team shoot came the closest thing to a yearbook photo for a football team. 

A time stamp of the assembled _espirit de corps_ , potentially on the cusp of doing something great. 

Class of 2015/16 - who knew what the season held? This team closer to the ideal Pochettino wanted, one transfer window down, new faces looking to fit into established spaces. 

Pochettino threw up surprises; like Harry Winks and Joshua Onomah called up from the U21s to train with the first team in the twenty five man squad. With their blazers and their nervous air, they looked like eighth graders playing truant from school, hanging around the eleventh graders' spot on the playground. 

Winksy had a face like a twelve year old choirboy. 

All smooth and glowing, with a sly smile. Dark hair and eyes against parchment pale skin peppered with freckles, giving him an air of a school boy auditioning for the lead in a boy band on _X factor_. 

Joshua Onomah, his excitement radiating from him like warmth from the sun; looking like the unlikely lead in a comic book series. Face open and innocent, a potential to be untapped, either waiting to be either bit by a radioactive spider, or struck by lighting. 

_You belong here_ , Eric wanted to say, _The Gaffer wouldn’t have you around if you didn’t_ and that was true. If Pochettino didn’t think you were ready, he’d either flog you off, or send you on loan. 

But Eric didn’t say a word, because Joshua’s excitement was nice to see. He remembered when he broke into the first team at Sporting, and how he’d floated on air for _weeks_ after that. Or when he’d gotten tapped to come to the Premier League back in 2014, one of the bigger leagues in Europe, he'd been so excited, he couldn't see straight. 

Assistants from _Aquascutum_ , their suit sponsors, milled around. 

Tailors with sewing kits on their person, made them stand on the rows of available chairs (assembled for the photoshoot) as they adjusted their hems. Or those assistants with steamers ready to bulldoze all wrinkles into sheet smooth lines. 

After much consultation, the powers that be decided to take the team’s pictures on the covered football pitch. The sky outside bright, but you never knew when rains would come and spoil the party, so it made sense to do it in here. You got the best of two worlds; the bright light - but not sunny- from the extended skylight effect of the roof, with indoor pitch and not having to worry about the rain. 

Their surroundings made even brighter with the assorted lights dotted around the field. The general busyness multiplied by the photographer’s assistants’ station with their computers, light readers and other instruments of the trade that was beyond Eric’s ken. 

Everyone milled around, the mood like school children in their uniforms at recess; Erik gathering Christian into a one armed hug, gesticulating and saying something funny and foul, if Christian’s pained smile was anything to go by. 

Pochettino looking askance at a stylist brandishing a blow dryer and a fine toothed comb in his direction. With Jesús cracking up, almost doubled over clutching his sides. 

From the corner of his eye, Eric saw when Joshua fiddled with his tie, doing the loops for the half Windsor, before he gave up. Clad in the navy blue two piece suit with white shirt and navy tie, he stood off to one side, wide eyed, watching the activity of chairs being set up before him. 

“I -” Joshua started, eyes bright, and if he’d had pale skin, Eric would have been sure that he’d have been absolutely puce from excitement. Now, because Joshua was now a first team player, and everyone helped out everyone else, Eric closed the distance between them; reached around Joshua’s shirt collar, and smoothed the narrow edge of the tie at the nape of his neck. 

“You have to flatten it,” Eric explained, holding the edges of the tie, taking care not to wrinkle it. The material feeling smooth and slinky to the touch, the fabric a navy blue to match their suits. “I think they want a full Windsor,” Eric said, “you want to have the wide end over here...” and done. 

“Oh wow,” Joshua’s fingers gently patted the knot under his chin, as if it were a sleeping chick resting against the base of his neck. “Thanks.”

“It’s fine,” Eric smiled, enjoying his role as an old hand on the team. “They’ll be taking the pictures soon, so don’t go too far, ok?”

“I won’t,” Joshua shook his head, before he half jogged over to Winksy, now speaking with Harry and Tommy. They greeted him with high fives all around, the mood around the photoshoot bubbling with general good cheer and anticipation; like school back from holidays, with new students filing in, and the old students telling their friends what they did over their summer holidays. 

“Someone’s buzzing.”

Eric jumped at the voice near his ear. 

“Wanker,” he hissed, spinning around to look at Dele. He’d dressed like everyone else who stood around in their mandated suits, finished with laced black shoes polished and buffed to a shine. Like everyone else as well, Dele had gotten a haircut, which made him seem glossier, somehow. 

“Who? Onamah?”

“Ha. Don’t be rude, it’s his first time,” Eric felt compelled to defend Joshua’s enthusiasm. “He’s been around the first team before at times last season, but - _oh_.”

“Oh?”

“Your tie,” Eric rolled his eyes as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “The knot is- never mind, let me sort it.”

Dele shrugged his shoulders, shoot Eric a grin as if he were doing Eric the favour of allowing him to adjust his tie. 

“You must have gotten a contact high around Onomah, yeah? He’s _buzzing_.”

Eric touched Dele’s chin with a gentle nudge of his index and middle finger. Dele stayed in position, as Eric looped the wide end of the tie over the top of the loop around Dele’s collar and brought it back down, the wide end to the left of the thin end. 

“Aren’t you?” Eric asked, lifting his eyebrows for emphasis. “You're new here as well, remember? You still have to play into first team consideration.”

“Is there a reason you’re retying my tie, Diet?” Dele tilted his face so that their eyes met. 

“You did a half Windsor,” Eric explained, voice suddenly hitching on the last word. “You need a full one.”

“There’s a difference?”

“The knot is smaller, for one,” Eric turned the wide end of the tie downward, tugged it through the loop he’d made. “It’s neater for two.”

The end now, their heads close enough to be touching, intimate enough to share air, and smell the mints on Dele’s breath. Eric smoothed Dele’s collar, now hyper aware of the heat of Dele’s skin under his fingertips, the fine grain of fabric in his palms. With great effort, Eric smoothed Dele’s tie, and took a step back. 

“You’re done, Dellboy. The camera lens should be safe.”

“Hah,” Loose hipped, Dele struck a pose, his fingers tugging on the lapels, his expression smug. “I’m smashing it, bruv.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Eric sputtered out a laugh. “Everyone needs a dream. Besides, anyone can clean up nicely in a suit. You’re just stepping over a low bar.”

Dele’s mouth dropped open, which caused Eric to laugh harder, because Dele looked shocked and annoyed. Dele’s brows beetled, and Eric steeled himself for a stinging retort. 

A sharp whistle pierced all the banter in the enclosed space. 

“Find your spots, please,” the photographer shouted, removing his fingers from his mouth and started waving his hands around. “We don’t have all day.”

***

_Lisbon_

 _Pastel de natas_ , thought Danny as he bit into the tart, the crisp shell giving way, to his chewing, the flaky dough mixed with the lushness of the egg custard dancing across his tongue. 

He closed his eyes and did a little hum at the hints of cinnamon which threaded through the silk of custard with every bite. 

Still morning, about half six. The time of day where the breezes off the Rio Tajo were still fresh. That translated to his shirt not sticking to his torso, and the ability to breath air deeply and easily. With a sigh of content, Danny fluttered his lashes, and reached for the last one on his blue and white decorated ceramic plate. 

That being said, the sun didn’t wait around to brighten and warm, so much so that Danny retreated to a table shaded by an oversized pool parasol. The wooden balcony underfoot already feeling warm through his slip ons. 

It had been nice of Eric to invite them down here to show them around bits of the country. In the week they’d been here, they’d crossed the border to Seville, on their return, toured the picturesque towns that dotted the Algarve. He had no complaints with Eric’s arrangements, because the week so far had been lovely.

But, it was nice being on his own.

”Obridgada” he said to the waitress. A pretty Portuguese lass - but then they were all pretty - stood in front of him with a note pad and pencil. ”Eu gostaria e um pouco mais, por favor"

“We can speak in English, if you prefer?”

Danny felt his face warm, and shook his head. This is why he got up at Gods ayem this morning. Eric had been a legend all of this week, being their tour guide and their translator. He did his utmost to making them feel at home but Danny wanted to do this. 

To try the language on his own. 

Or at least, what he learned from google translate. 

“Não,” he started, “eu quero - ahhhh,” he stopped, because learning language was like riding a train to an unknown destination on a dodgy track. Sometimes, the track gave out, as your vocabulary ran out before your thoughts could. “Wait- espera, por favor- oh sorry, I mean... I’ve got it now. Não, eu quero praticar meu Português.”

Silence. 

Danny winced. He wished he could have said, 'Sorry for breaking your language. That’s what we English do, you see. We show up, demand a cuppa or booze wherever we are, and break your languages with our clumsy tongues.' 

He could only say, _“Perdão,”_ with much sincerity as he could muster. 

_“Ah, voce quer mais?”_

“Yes!” Danny yelled a laugh, as he wagged his finger at nothing in particular. “I understood that. Brilliant! Yes, I would like - I mean, pouco mais! Pouco mais!" 

The waitress laughed as she nodded. “Yes, _Sim,_ Okay.” 

As soon as the waitress was out of sight, Danny jumped out of his chair and did a little shimmy, not even minding the dampness on his back and under his armpits because in the space of his brief conversation, the weather had warmed by degrees. 

As Danny’s day went on, it only got better when he met up with everyone else that evening with a request. 

“Fado?” Eric looked stupefied, as if Danny started speaking Greek on the spot. “You want to listen to Fado?” 

“Yeah, it’s live music, innit?” 

The lads found themselves crowded around a table in an intimate tavern that used to be an English themed pub, but became the venue for Fado in the capital, before any of them had been born. Outside, the sun blazed like a furnace, the light so bright, spots bounced in front of your eyes, causing the air to bend and sizzle, creating bodies of water that didn’t exist. 

Inside, with its stout stone walls covered with posters and framed photographs of famous Fado singers, the room felt cooler and intimate. Another pleasant surprise, the beams of the roof covered with football scarves from teams local and abroad, and hello, the blue and gold colours of Leeds FC winked at him. 

“There’s your team, Diet,” Dele pointed at the Sporting Lisbon scarf with its striking design. Green with white stripes, the golden lion prancing on hind legs. 

They were seated, four to a round table, the top scarred with writing and sticky with bar tar. 

In front of them, a short distance away, was a modestly raised stage. On it, two men sat on stools, playing the distinctly tear shaped Portuguese guitars. Their guitar work dramatic and delicate, with pauses at turns. 

In the middle of the stage, standing in a circle of light the colour of a dying fire, a woman sang in Portuguese. 

Danny couldn’t understand a word of it, not at all. 

A familiar word from the Babel or Duolingo apps a wink of recognition in every ten, with no context to anchor it, but it didn’t matter. 

Every eye and heart knew what mourning looked like; the slip of a woman in a black dress of ornate lace, her hair half covering her face like a widow’s shroud. The singer’s movements controlled, her formal gestures bearing the eloquence of grief. Her head thrown back, the column of her neck exposed, decorated with a stack of necklaces as black and delicate as webs. Her fingers curved into claws, before straightening, shifting into the stylised movements of a flamenco dancer. 

Her words, throaty and sibilant, the accent brushing over the words making it feel like a half dream, an emotional slur across the tables. 

The music stopped, as if the instrumentalists could bear no more witness to the woman’s lament, stripping her of accompaniment. The singer’s voice unfurled at the end of the phrase, an undulating note which made the air tremble; holding it long enough to punch at your chest. 

When her notes faded away, you tasted loss. Your heart shattered into pieces by the ache of what it left behind. 

The quiet in the room spanning seconds, years. The lull a courtesy for people to collect their thoughts before the applause burst the quiet. 

Danny clapped with everyone else, seeing an elderly man in the far corner surreptitiously wiping tears at the corners of his rheumy eyes with gnarled fingers. 

He turned to Eric, wanting to ask him for a brief translation. What were in the lyrics that moved that man to tears? To make Danny himself feel a pang of empathy he didn’t even know he had? 

Eric, clapping with gusto like everyone else, his eyes only on Dele. 

It's fine, Danny thought as he let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. Translations weren’t important anyway. 

But before they left, he needed to get some CDs. 

***

“Sardines?” Dele made a face. “Really?”

“Like in Malaga,” Danny explained. “You can’t come to Portugal and not have sardines.”

“You’re really going native, mate.”

Danny poked at the barbecue while Dele watched. No one know how he did it, but he’d gotten permission to use a small barbecue in a shed some distance from the hotel. The same shed the hotel’s workers used when the trade was slow and they had some time to slip away and breathe. This barbecue a ways beyond their hotel, nearer to the water than anything. The structure nearby the barbecue a shack that might have doubled as the worker’s odd room. With fishing rods, nets and other odds and ends. Giant upended olive oil tins used as stools, threadbare cushions as insulation. 

Oh and the barbecue? This wasn’t one of those neat jobs from John Lewis either. 

Nope. 

This was a structure of blocks, with gridded mesh separating the meats from the coal. 

Coal that you had to fan with a newspaper to coax the flames into life. Somehow Dele had been roped into this job, fanning the flames with _O Jogo_ , a sports newspaper that Danny had taken to reading in his time there. Armed with Portuguese dictionary on his mobile phone - _true_ \- but making a decent fist of it. 

Two oversized water coolers to the side, one with sardines and other things, the other one with drinks. 

Dele looked up. It was just past sunset. Although the weather was a tad warmer than he found comfortable, it was still pleasant. The wind stirring off the River Tagus helped to quell the heat, making it manageable. 

“Mad dogs and Englishmen,” Eric had snorted earlier when he heard of Danny’s plan. “Most Portuguese don’t really stick their heads out until nine in the evening.”

Dele threw himself across the foot of Eric’s bed. The hotel they were staying in, one of the smaller ones, nearer to the river. The windows closed against the heat outside, but still bringing in the light, the sunlight bouncing from wave to wave on the water. Inside, the blade-less fans did their magic, making the temperature in the room fresh. 

Eric seated on the bed, leaning against the headrest the daily newspapers scattered across his lap. Two in Portuguese, and one in English. In his hand, he held a remote pointed at the TV, idly flicking through the channels. 

“Does that mean you won’t go?”

“It’s just sardines,” Eric shrugged his shoulders, before folding the broadsheet into tabloid size, spreading it across his thighs. Like Dele and most English men in Portugal Eric was rocking shorts and a tee shirt. Unlike Dele, Eric’s sponsor was Nike, so he was rocking those. 

“It’s going to be thirty degrees at six pm. It won’t be pleasant.”

Dele rolled over on his stomach, using his elbows to support his body weight. The mattress one of those form fitting things, so it took time to steady his weight. 

“I know,” Dele inched forward, now stretched out beside Eric, his eyes skipping over articles in a language he couldn’t read. “But still...”

“Just because Danny is culture vulturing it up doesn’t mean-”

“Give over, Diet,” Dele said, snatching the newspaper from Eric’s hand. 

“Hey!”

For a guy of his size, who doubled as a bruiser of a defender, Eric could be quick at times, springing across the bed. The remote flew off the bed and crashed onto the floor with a clatter. The white noise of newspapers crushed under Eric’s knees as he scrambled across the bed, his weight bearing down on Dele. 

“Hey yourself,” Dele torqued his body, shifting the newspaper from one hand to another out of Eric’s reach. 

“Give it back!” Eric snapped, hand over Dele’s hip, his fingers waving over the spot. 

Dele shot Eric a narrow glare. “You daren't.”

Eric smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “I dare. Give it back.”

“You have an app- !” Dele started, cut off by his own laughter, as Eric's fingers fluttered against his hipbone. 

“Give it back.”

“No!”

Dele half shrieked with laughter, his body jackknifing off the mattress. He tried twisting away from Eric’s tickles but no dice. Eric was strong, and like anyone raised with a litter of siblings, he fought dirty. Eric angled his body out of reach, kept being a moving target to throw Dele off guard. 

He avoided Dele’s kick to his ribs. Arrowed for the backs of the knees, another point of vulnerability. Dele couldn’t stop laughing. Now paralysed by it, his chest tightening with each sob. 

“Enou-” Dele snorted, his body weakened with laughter. Half dizzy with it, he swatted at Eric’s face with his newspaper. Missed by a mile. “Get off me, you wanker.”

“Give up?”

“No!” 

Eric grabbed Dele’s wrist, pinned it to the bed, their faces inches from each other, Eric’s thighs on either side of his body, pinning him to the bed. 

Chest inhaling and exhaling rapidly, as if he’d ran a marathon, Dele looked up at Eric’s face, now flushed pink at the tip of his nose, his cheeks and ears. Even with the fans going at full blast, perspiration sheening Eric’s brow. A blink and they were in the Euros again, hugging each other on the field after the game. Everyone shouting and yelling around them, the supporters waving the flags of St George like banners proceeding a crusade. 

It didn’t matter, not then, Dele’s head tucked into the nook between Eric’s ear and shoulder. For that time alone, nothing else mattered. 

Another blink, Dele back in this room, in this moment, his breath coming back to him, his pulse still tripping as if he’d been on the back of a suicide run. Eric pressed their foreheads together, their noses touching. The heat pumping off their bodies as if they’d done ten of Pochettino’s suicide runs back to back. 

Dele’s eyes half closed, his mouth soft, not knowing what to think. Everything else falling away from this moment; where he could see the sandiness of Eric’s lashes, the kaleidoscopic blues in his irises. Eric shifted his head, Dele angled his head to meet Eric's, his nerves stretched taut to the point of breaking, readying himself for anything. 

Eric dodged his mouth, tucked his head between the hinge of Dele's neck and shoulder, Dele's skin goose bumping from the scratch of Eric's scruff, warm breath from his nose and mouth against the column of his neck. Eric’s fingers slackening along his wrist. 

With his free hand, Dele drew Eric against him, absently stroking along his spine. Long, fluid strokes, palm rucking and smoothing Eric’s thin t-shirt. He felt Eric’s tension ebbing away bit by bit, so he made his movements slower. 

“He’ll miss you if you’re not there.” Dele said finally, eyes starting at the exposed beams in the ceiling. If he remembered Danny’s reading from his guide book, the hotel used to be a tile factory, which showed in the ensuite bathrooms of the particular blue and white tile all through the build. 

And that’s not what he wanted to say at all. Eric’s legs now tangled with his, his body half on top, hard and heavy and warm. “You can’t boast about Portugal all the time, only to turn around and mug off someone who’s happened to fall for it as hard as you did.”

“I don’t want sardines,” Eric managed to sound all of six years. A sharp contrast to his thumb stroking Dele’s wrist, causing him to goose bump every time made Eric every bit of his twenty-two years. 

“Bring a salad, then, you choosy beggar.”

“I’ll think about it.”

_”Eric.”_

Dele felt as Eric moved away from his neck, his face now near to Dele’s. After just over a year of knowing each other, Dele thought he had had an angle on Eric’s every mood. But this was new, like Eric's palm resting against his cheek. Dele’s eyes slid half closed, feeling the gentle drag of his skin giving way to the stroke of Eric’s thumb along his cheek. 

“I’ll think about it,” he repeated, his hand leaving Dele’s wrist to tug at the rolled up newspaper, Dele’s slackened fingers giving it up without any resistance. 

Eric pulled away and excused himself to use the loo. Dele stayed where he was for a minute. His body still keyed up for the moment now passed. After a few minutes, when he realised Eric wasn’t coming out until he left, Dele pushed himself off the bed, slinking from the room without saying goodbye. 

“I thought about toasting some bread on the grill,” Danny pointed to the baguettes on the wooden table beside him. “But that seems like a bad thing to do.”

“I- hey H,” Dele greeted Harry as he came down the path with torch in hand, even though they had street lights nearby, and over there somewhere in the distance, Dele heard the screams and shouts of teenagers’ voices with _One Dance_ playing again. 

“I can’t believe it,” Harry shook his head at Danny. Even though the evening hadn’t cooled down, Harry turned out in long track bottoms. 

“What?” Danny asked as he laid out sardines on the grill straight from the ice cooler. Flecked with salt and pepper. Larger and fatter than what you got in tins, and smelt different. A lot brinier for one. The air started to hiss and sizzle as the fish hit the grill. 

“Nothing,” Harry said, slipping his hand into his pocket, the torch now swinging from the wrist of his other hand. “I came hungry, I hope you prepared enough.”

“Yeah?” Danny looked up from his task at hand. “Yeah!” he repeated as if it just clicked that yes, Harry and Dele actually showed up. Danny’s face beaming with such happiness to share an experience with his friends, it made Dele want to hunt down Eric and drag him here. 

Whatever their little issue was, it was between them, not Danny. 

“Alright?” Harry asked, as he steered Dele away from Danny’s barbeque and towards the back of the shed, flicking on the torch, although it really made not one whit of difference, because the place was so well lit, and the sky still in Twilight. 

Dele puffed up his cheeks before exhaling in a noisy puff of air. “Yeah,” he said, pretending not to notice how Harry relaxed with relief with his shoulders softening, as if he feared being an agony aunt on this holiday. “Portugal is amazing. I’ve been here before -” he said to Harry’s nod, because once you were on the English football youth teams, you did training camps in Portugal in your international career at one time or the other. “But it was nice seeing it this way.”

“Yeah. So where’s Dier wolf then?”

“He’s wolfing, I guess,” Dele shrugged his shoulders, not even bothering to take out his phone, because the signal was weak here. 

“Have you heard from Sonny? Hard times, yeah?”

“Bad luck,” Dele agreed. “I sent him a text but he didn’t feel like talking, which is understandable, so.”

Harry shrugged and leaned over, his mouth near Dele’s ear. “I don’t really like sardines,” he said. 

“Don’t you start that too,” Dele hissed, feeling annoyed on Danny’s behalf. “What sort of nonsense is _this_?”

“What sort of nonsense is what? Hey, get that torch off my face.”

“Hey, Dier Wolf,” Harry greeted, as he clicked the torch off. Eric stopped on the path, in the same shorts and top from earlier on, with Nike trainers on his feet. An oversized bag swung from his shoulder, something that you’d carry around cold food in for insulation. 

“Hey yourself, how’s Danny getting on?”

“No screams, so I suppose he’s getting on,” Harry nodded. “Shall we go see?”

They traipsed around the back, with Danny brightening up at seeing them together. 

“Hey, Dierwolf, you made it!”

“I had to see if you were doing this thing correctly,” Eric said, putting the bag down on one of the seats, and he unzipped it, taking out a sealed Tupperware container with tomato and lemon quarters inside. “Sardines aren’t just sardines without tomatoes and olive oil. Oh, don’t turn them over so soon,” he continued, hurrying over to stand beside Danny at the barbeque. “Or else they’ll stick to the grill, here, let me help.”

Soon, but not too soon, they had sardines on slices of rustic bread. “The trick is,” Eric directed, “you eat the sardines on the bread, using your teeth like this-”

Dele, Danny and Harry joined in. It might have been the fresh air, or the fact that they waited so long to eat, but the sardines were the best he’d ever tasted. Plump with their unique flavour heightened with the simple additions of rock salt, black pepper and brushed olive oil. You used the bread like a sort of napkin/plate hybrid as it soaked up the oils which oozed from the sardines. 

“And after you’ve finished with the sardines, you then just have the bread,” Eric’s voice now bright as a child’s, because the bread was now soft with flavour, and Dele chewed. Understanding why Danny had made the face he did, with eyes slitted in pleasure as he bit into the bread for the first time. 

Later, much later, when they’d cleaned up after themselves, Danny giving directions like bossy boots, Dele nudged Eric’s shoulder when they were packing their bottles away in the recycling bin. 

“I thought you didn’t want sardines.”

Eric straightened up, gave Dele a crooked smile. “I like them well enough,” he moved away, gathering up the plates to be taken to the kitchens to be washed. 

Dele lightly touched Eric’s forearm, and Eric’s movements stilled, his fingers frozen around the edges of the plates. They were the same blue and white tiles that threaded through the hotel. This one with a crowing rooster in the middle. Unable to help himself, Dele’s eyes drifted up to Eric’s face. “Thanks for coming, I know Danny appreciated it.”

“Danny’s my friend too,” Eric’s tongue darted at the corner of his lip, leaving it slick in the light. 

“I know,” Dele said, suddenly feeling stupid. Of course, he’d been. Didn’t Dele rock up seeing them all there, fresh from clinching a respectable fifth place in the table last season? 

_What was I thinking?_ Dele wanted to rage, but after his meltdown at West Bromwich Albion which cost them dearly, Dele gave his temper a shorter leash now.

“Let me just-” he gave a vague gesture to the crumpled pieces of newspapers and paper napkins that littered the ground. He cleaned up as quickly as he could, and left without saying goodbye.

***

Danny discovered _Ginjinha_ , and he was making the case to Harry about why it had to be The. Best. Drink. Ever.

Yes, said just like that. The. Best. Drink. Ever. 

Like an American teenager who’d discovered beer for the first time in those Disney comedies, before they got drunk and had to hide in the school locker until sober at the end of the day. 

“Mate, it’s like -- _cherries_ ,” Danny said, “with salt and sugar and liqueur. CHERRIES, mate. I’m not talking AFC Bournemouth either.”

“The Gaffer won’t like you reporting back as an alcoholic,” Harry mused, putting his phone down on the table. Save a few WhatsApp messages from the missus, and cheery texts from his brother, all was calm, all was clear. Satisfied with that, Harry looked around. Danny and himself had colonised the best table at the outside bar. Private enough for prying eyes not to see them, behind strategically placed plants, but with enough of a view for them to see everyone else. 

Danny waved his shot glass sized shot at Harry. Today was the evening of their last night of their jaunt to Portugal. 

“I’d offer you some,” Danny sing- songed, “but I’d have to _share_.”

“And I don’t drink,” Harry signalled to a waiter at the far edge of the room, gratified when he rocked up to their table in a good time. 

“Oh yeah,” Danny said _sotto voce_ “I forgot.” Ignoring him, Harry made his order. 

“Can I have a bowl of gazpacho soup for my friend and myself, please?” 

“ _E chouriço e pão_ ,” Danny piped up. “ _Com Pastel de nata. Podemos esperar._ ”

“All right,” Harry nodded at their waiter, “and those too, please. Look at you,” he marvelled as soon as their waiter departed. “Speaking Portuguese.”

“The power of cherries.”

“Not _Babel_ or _Duolingo_ ?”

“Hmmm,” Danny rested his chin on his fist. “I can’t believe we’re going back tomorrow.”

“Too soon?”

“Too soon. I really enjoyed it, and not because of this,” Danny blew a boozy kiss towards the contents of his class. “ _Ginjinha_.”

Harry looked around, hoping that no one saw that, but the other patrons at their tables were talking and eating. Each table had a citronella candle and matches, for people to light to ward away mosquitos or give their table soft glowing light. Harry tilted the box of oversized matches in his hands, charmed by the sweet tile design on the box. 

“Have you seen Dele and Eric lately?” Danny asked. “I wanted to drag them with me to the square with me for more _Ginjinha_. I hear there’s a bar there devoted to it. If the one here is decent...”

“No,” Harry replied. “Besides, I don’t think you want those two around alcohol. At least, not now.”

“Oh, what do you mean?”

Harry cocked his head at Danny. Was he serious? 

“Erm... you know.”

“Know what?”

“Eric had to go and visit some friends in the city, and Dele is shopping for souvenirs,” Harry moved the subject along. If Danny hadn’t picked up on the odd dynamics between Eric and Dele for all the time they’d been here, it made no sense to ruin his holidays now. For one, Danny would have felt awful for not picking up on their dynamic, and two, Dele and Eric would have felt awful for Danny feeling awful. The summer had been awful already, what with a torrid Euro dump out at the hands of Iceland, after coming third place _after Arsenal again_ at the end of season.

Harry sighed, as he looked at the half-ruined matchbox, before trying to smooth out the creases. 

Sodding St Totteringham’s Day. 

You know, Harry thought, now that Danny had put him in a bit of a mood. Sod Eric and Dele while he was at it.

***

Dele with his nutmegs and easy charm, slotting into the first team as if he belonged. Taking on banter and giving it back in spades. For someone from League 1 and young, Harry thought Dele would have needed a bit of settling in.

“No,” Dele smirked when he’d been prompted by Harry, a week after he’d settled in. Harry raised his eyebrows, and Dele flushed, his cheeks turning shades of terracotta, a bright contrast to his tawny skin. 

“I might have changed in the U21s for a time?” Dele said as they walked towards the training fields from their complex. 

“Really?” Harry stopped, shocked at such an oversight. “Mate, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dele waved the matter aside. “Eric helped me out. Showed me my locker.”

And that had been the end of that. 

Or so he thought. 

Football was a sport that cultivated intense friendships. You needed the team spirit that Pochettino talked about; the willingness to lay everything on the line for your team, emotionally and physically, like Mace did when he took the goal against Sunderland. That win unlocked their streak where they started to rack up points, moving from playing well into wins. 

For a team to work, the sport also demanded ruthless intimacy, in terms of learning your teammate’s game; like Verts and Toby reunited at Spurs as a defensive partnership beginning from their time at Ajax. Toby taking the scenic route to Spurs; with stops at Atletico Madrid and Southampton in between. Christian Eriksen making a happy threesome, with his magic in midfield. 

For Eric’s move from defence to the midfield, it had made sense for him and Dele to be emotionally available, and comfortable with each other. Just like Sonny and Wimmer having that personal connection through language and their shared time in the Bundesliga. 

Again, Dele made it seem easy, and seamless. One of the first to be at Harry’s side (after Mace), when he scored a goal, and Harry had scored _plenty_. Quick to spread his arms and accept all comers when Dele himself scored a goal. 

Dele got on with everyone, and Pochettino liked all aspects of him, even his temper. 

Harry honestly didn’t think anything of it, of Dele and Eric probably being _DeleandEric_ \- one name no spaces- until this summer. 

After the Wales match, while everyone hooted and screamed and ran towards their coaching staff and families, Dele and Eric turned to each other, and _clung_. Or the times at training with the national team, a shared look between them enough to send them into mutual giggles. Especially that time one evening after training when they were in Chantilly, they springing apart when he'd called to them, Eric's face flushed, Dele a bit steadier greeting him with a wave. 

Now, on holiday, both of them being friendly enough, but restrained. Harry had faith in them though - theirs had the feeling of a relationship that would be strong enough to slip at busy points and tightened bolted joints- or however the poem he’d studied for GCSE English went. 

“Two orders of gazpacho,” their waiter placed the soups before them, the smell pulling Harry out of his woolgathering. Oh, and Danny ordered chorizo and bread, that’s what he was on about. Wasn’t there a third item? 

It didn’t matter, Harry told himself as he took his first sip of gazpacho. A cold soup with a subtle mix of spices, nothing standing out, everything a perfect balance of flavours. 

Going by Danny’s reverent nod, after the first sip, he felt the same way too. With the second sip, and Danny’s jokes, Harry moved the conversation on.

***

Dele zipped up his holdall, scanning his hotel room with the practice of a frequent flyer. Satisfied that he had everything, Dele shoved his wallet and passport in his pocket, and made his way down the hall. Check out at 10:00 am, and there was everyone at the front desk.

Harry’s English pallor which gave way to ruddiness when he first landed, now settled into a tan. Ditto for Eric, his hair lighter than usual. 

Danny, who seemed to have eaten his way to Seville and back, and finishing up a custard tart _even now_ , miraculously looked the same size. Not that Dele was no stranger to a big meal himself, but Danny had a holiday food, and some addictive cheery drink called _Ginjinha_ according to Harry, and survived. 

“Our taxi is waiting for us outside,” Eric greeted as soon as Dele drew close. “Do you have everything?”

“I’m ready,” Dele said, and he was.

***

Surprisingly, given the traffic in Lisbon, the required two hour pre-arrival time at the airport, everything just felt rushed. As if someone pressed fast forward from the last time Eric and Dele had spoken to each other to now.

Last night, Eric had gotten reacquainted with his old haunts in the capital. Everyone had decided to take a day from each other for themselves, and Eric appreciated Danny being the one to put it forward. 

“Get out, honestly,” Danny had encouraged with a nudge, as they sat at the edge of the pool, kicking their legs lazily in the pool. “Go, see your friends, speak Portuguese.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been here for a while before you guys arrived, so it’s not as if I haven’t taken the opportunity to see everyone.”

“You’ve been good to us,” Danny gestured, speaking on behalf of everyone. It had been late evening the night before yesterday, and everyone in various stages being in and around the pool. 

_Dele?_ Eric wanted to ask, but he didn’t. They’d said enough to each other, he thought. 

“Yeah, we need a holiday from our holiday,” Harry piped up. 

“Dele?” 

“What Danny and Harry said,” Dele flashed him a grin before diving into the pool. 

“Okay,” Eric answered, feeling strangely at a loss to understand how things got so twisted between them. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Fast forward to now, and they weren’t seated together when their tickets got printed. Eric didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed. 

At least, he got a window seat. Every cloud and all that, something of interest to look at as Libson got further and further out of sight, going from individual features to grids, to colours of grey and green, Rio Tejo moving from a body of water to nothing more than a ribbon flowing through the country before meeting the sea. 

Eric pressed his fingers against the glass, feeling a wrench as Portugal dropped from view. 

One day, he told himself, once he got himself sorted, he would never have to leave. 

The lights on the plane flashed off, the plane levelled out, and people started to move about. Due to the time they’d flown, and the airport they’d flown from, the plane wasn’t at full capacity, so Eric was free to get up and walk around. He’d just circulate, he told himself. Just to avoid DVT, and that’s it, really. If he came across Dele in the next few aisles, he might stop, he might not. 

 

Eric passed by Danny and Harry, both comfortably snug with airline blankets across their laps, Danny in a fitful dose, while Harry leafed through an airline magazine. 

He found Dele seated in the middle of the plane. Dele also had a window seat and an empty row all by himself. In deference to the cold air in the airport, Dele bundled up in an oversized plain black hoodie, teamed with joggers and comfortable sneakers. 

Instead of looking outside, Dele wore tiny headphones, his laptop opened in front of him. Eric also recognised the animation on screen. _Interstellar 5555_. Dele had been on an anime kick lately, devouring all comers; ones based on video games, to the considered classics. _Akira_ Eric remembered Alli going on about for a minute. _Ghost In The Shell_ , he’d been mightily impressed by. But he’d fallen hard for _Interstellar 5555_ , a whimsical Japanese -French anime, its music score conceptualised and scored by Daft Punk. Dele liked the music, his fingers tapping to the music on either side of the touchpad. 

_You don’t have to stop_ , Eric told himself. _Just pretend that you’re going to the toilet, and then walk past. Or you can turn around now. You can-_

Sometimes, it was best to ask forgiveness than to ask for permission.

Eric slipped into in the free seat beside him. 

Wordlessly, Dele took out his headphone from his right ear, and offered it to him. Eric pressed the headphone in his left ear, his hand leaning on the armrest between them, their shoulders and heads pressed together, watching the animation for _Harder, Better, Faster_.

“I’m sorry,” Eric murmured, still looking at the colourful animation on screen. 

Dele rubbed at his nose, because the air con made his nose itch, Eric knew, with the air being cold and dry, while looking straight ahead. Heart sinking, Eric looked at Dele’s profile, his hair curling in on itself because he needed a trim, his widow’s peak filled in. 

“You’re not going to make me beg, are you?”

“No,” Dele turned to look at him, eyes big and dark. “I just wanted to finish this song, it’s my favourite.”

Eric snorted, “No, it’s not. It’s _Face To Face_.”

“Rumbled,” Dele chuckled, pressing pause on the animated feature as he took his earplug out. “No, you don’t have to beg. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Eric clenched his fist, remembering that day in his hotel room, and swallowed. “No, there is. I-” and how could he explain it? That he knew what he wanted his relationship with Dele to be, versus what it morphed into, and he needed- 

“Sleep,” Dele interjected. 

“What? No.”

“No. Me,” Dele yawned widely, “I need sleep.”

“You’re not trying to fob me off?”

“Probably,” and that was Dele, his honesty brutal at times. Eric leant back, Dele’s response such a cut off at the knees, he could only look on, aghast.

“Well,” Eric croaked, unable to come up with something witty, “I should go then.”

“Wait,” Dele closed his computer and slipped it to the side of his seat. 

“No, I-” 

Undeterred, Dele leant over his seat, stretched an arm out. He gathered Eric close, their cheeks pressing against each other’s. “Diet,” Dele whispered. “We’re fine.”

Eric closed his eyes as he sagged against Dele’s shoulder with relief. Still unable to speak, he squeezed Dele’s forearm. 

Dele broke away, tugging his hoodie up, and over his eyes, before adjusting his chair so it leant back a fraction. “I wasn’t trying to fob you off,” he yawned widely, just about covering his mouth with his hand. “I do need a kip. I won’t be good company.”

“Be a mate, and lend me your computer.”

“You’re going to watch _Interstellar 5555_ without me, aren’t you?” Dele reached over and handed over his laptop.

“No, _Cowboy Bebop_.”

“That’s a good one,” Dele murmured sleepily, his eyes drifting closed. “You should give _Paprika_ a...” That was Dele, out like a light, his hoodie falling away, his lashes long and sooty against his cheeks. His fingers a loose fist, his breathing deep and even. 

Feeling foolish, even though he knew Dele wouldn’t stir until he had to, Eric reached over and stroked Dele’s wrist, his thumb brushing Dele’s palm. Dele’s fingers lightly grabbed at his thumb. Eric stilled his hand, the corner of his mouth swinging upwards. 

If Dele wanted to hold his thumb, while he slept then he could function with one hand for the rest of the flight. Pressing the Esc button, Eric clicked out of _Interstellar 5555_ and turned on _Paprika_ He’d never seen that anime before.

***

Harry checked his watch. He was absolutely knackered, wanted to go home and see his missus, play with his dogs, and download his life. He wanted to say, _I’ve parked, and I need to go and get to my parking space, like now_ He couldn’t do that, not right now. As soon as Danny got off the plane, his phone started buzzing, beeping and ringing. He tarried behind on his mobile while Harry, Eric and Dele drew closer towards the revolving door.

Taking advantage of being out of earshot with Dele and Eric, he asked, “You two are okay, right?”

Dele frowned, as he pulled on the visor of his cap. “To get home? Yeah, I’ll just grab a taxi, it’s fine.”

 _No, no, no_ , Harry thought, _I want to know, are you DeleandEric or Dele and Eric?_ Harry looked at Eric, hoping for a clue. 

“Same. I’m calling a taxi and going home,” Eric nodded in the affirmative, and glory be, Harry thought, the air didn’t feel weird, egg shells weren’t crunching underfoot. They didn't seem to be overly fixated with each other on the way back, and the strange tension between them had largely disappeared. 

_So, Dele and Eric then,_ Harry thought, ready to stuff this genie back in the bottle. Because to think of Dele and Eric as DeleandEric made his head hurt. With _Dele and Eric_ he didn't have to worry about either one getting hurt. _DeleandEric_ on the other hand... Harry couldn't wait to get back into training and top-flight competition, so he could worry about other things. Like Champions' League matches at Wembley, and gunning for all available silverware.

“See you at training a week from now, then?”

“Okay,” Dele high fived Harry, their palms clapping against each other, and Harry allowed himself to be tugged towards Dele, not surprised at Eric joining in. 

“Hey, chaps” Danny finally caught up with the trio, slipping his phone in his pocket, as he hailed his friends. 

“That holiday was brilliant. Thanks so much, guys, I really enjoyed that.”

“I’m surprised that you were able to fit on the plane, to be honest,” Eric admitted. “I hope you’re ready for the gaffer’s suicide runs. You know what he’s like in the preseason.”

“I was born ready,” Danny said with mock seriousness before he cracked up. As quick as a blink, he sobered up again, his holdall beside him. “I have to go,” he started jogging towards the bus across the road, dragging his holdall behind him. They stood there, watching Danny hauling his suitcase up the steps to the bus, and waved at him until the bus turned a corner and disappeared from sight. 

Altogether, their phones buzzed in a cacophony of their tones. To a man, they all took out their phones and scrolled through their WhatsApp, a message from Danny. 

_Thanks guys, we should do this again!_

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

>   * The poem that Harry Kane refers to is [Scaffolding](http://genius.com/Seamus-heaney-scaffolding-annotated) by Seamus Henley 
>   * Son Heung-min went off to the Olympics with the South Korean team to try and win a medal. he didn't. Supposedly, he wanted to return to Germany, but Pochettino said no 
>   * Bolinhos de Bachalou are codfish balls. Pretty savory and delicious. In the Caribbean, flour is used instead of potato, and you slap the batter in deep fried oil. That's a codfish fritter, or 'stamp an go' 
>   * Fado is Portuguese folk music [its themes seem to be mostly about love, struggle and loss. Very cathartic ](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Fado)
>   * Interstellar 5555 exists! It's an anime scored by Daft Punk, with the hits 'One More Time', and 'Digital Love' 'Something Between Us' is a track off the album/anime too 
>   * If you like Inception, you'll like Paprika, it's a similar plotline but better iirc
> 



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